Towards the Light
by Sarah3
Summary: ~Moulin Rouge~ Christian summons the will to 'write his story'... with a little help.


Title

**_Towards the Light_**

Tomorrow. Once the word had brimmed with possibilities. It had spoken of promises made by moonlight, dreams lit by sunlight, of laughter and joy. Now, it held darker implications.Tomorrow was another storm to endure. Every night, he stumbled into bed with the same silent promise on his lips. Tomorrow he would begin. Tomorrow he would write their story. But every day slipped from his fingers, gradually subsiding into a dark fog of despair, with nothing to show for it but a thousand tears and a growing collection of empty bottles. Tomorrow. 

Monmartre slumbered at night these days. Yet while stillness shrouded the streets, Christian lay in fretful wakefulness. Sleep would have been welcome relief, but for the fact that it brought daylight ever closer. During the day, he would be expected to cope. Toulouse would be at his door, brimming with concern and good intentions, crying, "You can't keep yourself locked up in here fowever, Chwistian." With the hum of day would come a need to rationalise his failure to fulfil Satine's last request. He would be able to see his typewriter sitting untouched in the corner, a silent accusation. Daylight brought the painful realisation that the world went on around him still, unchanged, uncaring, and unaware that his life lay shattered around him. He wanted to stop the world in its tracks, to prevent it from going becoming something which Satine had no part of, and daylight made a mockery of such a wish. But in the silence of the night, he could simply exist- nothing more. That was all he felt capable of right now. 

But darkness was tedious when spent in wakeful anguish, and as restlessness overcame him, Christian climbed from bed to gaze out the window. The Moulin Rouge was a dark shadow against the night sky, and Christian glanced toward it, without really seeing it. He had become adept at mentally blocking out its presence, but tonight-tonight something was different.Was that a faint glimmer of light escaping from one of the windows? Leaning forward ever so slightly, his eyes swept from window to window. There it was again- a flicker, less than the blink of an eye, yet still a sign of life where none should be. He felt disorientated as, before his eyes, the light disappeared, only to reappear again in the next window, silhouetting the faintest hint of a shadow. The sharp chill as the wind gusted through the window assured him that he was not dreaming. Rather… he felt as though he were waking from a particularly disturbing nightmare, one in which nothing had been as it seemed. Nobody should be there. The Moulin Rouge was abandoned, boarded up and consigned to memory. Nobody had been there in so many months, more months than Christian liked to remember. But somebody was there now.

*************************************

The night air was cold, snapping Christian into full alertness. This was foolish. The middle of a dark winter's night, and here he was, alone in the Moulin Rouge's deserted garden. But the light was still there, glowing through the back windows, drawing him ever closer. He had to see for himself, had to reassure himself that it was nothing, just his mind playing tricks, or a passer-by bedding down for the night amongst the abandoned opulence. Forgoing these thoughts for a second, Christian focussed on listening intently. Was that music? His ears strained against the howl of the wind. There it was again. He couldn't make out the tune, but a definite melody floated across the night air. 

Shivering, Christian glanced about him warily. "Is… is there anybody there?" He almost whispered the words, feeling foolish and unsure as to whether he really wanted an answer. He doubted that he wanted to meet the kind of person who would be lurking here in the middle of the night. On the other hand, if no one was there…was he simply imagining it?

The silence echoed ominously, and Christian drew his coat around him in a futile attempt to ward of the uneasiness gathering in the pit of his stomach. He glanced back toward home, the light still burning invitingly in the window. Nervously, he turned his attention back to the imposing hulk of the Moulin. All was dark, still and for a second, Christian breathed more easily. There was nothing there. These were just the tricks your mind played when you stayed awake tormenting yourself with memories. Nothing more. Then, very deliberately, it happened again. The light burned brightly for a second, wavering slightly before fading into blackness.

Fatalistically, Christian shrugged his shoulders. What did it matter, anyway? Grasping about in the darkness, his hand found the cold, steel door handle. The door yielded without protest, and Christian breathed again slightly. Anyone could have opened this door, crept inside, found themselves a warm place to sleep for a night.  
  
"Who's here?" His voice was stronger now, yet was met with the same silent reply. He felt foolish, as though someone was playing a particularly cruel trick on him, and his feelings translated into sudden anger. Whoever was here had no right to be. They shouldn't be invading this place, this place that held all his memories, using it just as a convenient source of shelter. "Come out! Whoever you are, I know you're here. Come out right now!" Desperation tinged his voice. _Someone_ had to be there. He had seen the light, flickering, alive, real. He had _seen _it. Yet no answer was elicited from the darkness.

With shuddering breath and pounding heart, Christian stepped deliberately through the cavernous dance hall. Nothing. The room felt stale and empty, totally devoid of any human presence. "Hello…" he called again, certain that there would be no response.

But he was wrong, although the response was of the most unexpected type. As if in answer to his call, the faintest strains of a sad, sweet melody drifted from the back of the building. Who would be playing music in the middle of the night, here of all places? A light, a faint shadow- he could rationalise those. But music?

Creeping along the deserted hallways, it seemed to Christian that his footsteps were amplified one hundredfold. It was so deathly silent. Even the wind had died away, leaving nothing to disturb the eerie peace. Glancing around him, Christian wondered again what he was doing. Every door he passed was shut; its handle blanketed in dust. Nobody had been here in months. He bit his lip, a sob rising at the back of his throat as with sudden clarity, he realised how pathetically foolish he was being. He had been reduced to a near recluse, lured out of isolation only when he imagined strange noises in the middle of the night.

Leaning against the wall, Christian breathed heavily, shuddering with the effort of holding back heavy tears. He had almost succeeded in calming himself when he heard it-a pure, clear voice that seemed to float across the darkness to him.

"_Here I am, I'm right here  
Oh I wish you could feel me, standing so close  
I'm right here, beside you…"_

Christian spun around, his heart jumping in his throat. "Who's there!" he screamed, desperation suddenly filling his voice. "Whoever's there, come out!" He fought to hold back a cry of anguish. "Come out right now!" _This isn't funn_-" His voice faded into nothingness as his eyes fell on the pool of light shining from under the door. Satine's dressing room.The light spilling across the dirty floorboards came from Satine's dressing room.

************************************** 

The darkness was filled with the sound of his breathing- gasping, choking and high pitched. With a trembling hand, Christian reached for the door handle. It was covered with dust. Dust? But then how…? Pushing the unanswerable question to the deepest recesses of his mind, Christian struggled to gather his courage. "Just open it," he muttered inaudibly. "Open it and get it over and done with." With a shuddering intake of breath, he pushed down on the doorhandle.

The door creaked, reluctantly, opening to spill light across the darkness of the passageway. Clutching the doorframe for support, Christian's eyes swept the room. It was empty. Completely empty, and filled with the same stale, untouched aura that saturated the whole building.The only sign of life came from the flame of a lamp, sitting innocuously on the table. Christian breathed in sharply, trying to compose himself, while his mind raced to fabricate a plausible explanation.

With measured steps that belied his racing heart, Christian made his way to the dressing table on the other side of the room. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of dust, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see it, not wanting to relive the last time he had been in this room. Toulouse and Harold had brought him here, just a few weeks after Satine's death, when he had still been buried in despair so impenetrable that he barely knew where they were taking him. They had wanted to know if there was anything here he wanted to keep, but the question was unanswerable. Something he wanted to keep? What could he possibly find to comfort him when he stood in this room where the scent of her perfume still filled the air? It was a ridiculous question.

A blanket of grime and neglect lay thickly over everything-nobody had been here since that day. With a trembling hand, he reached towards a framed photo, lying face down on the table. Dust particles tiptoed across the light beams as he turned it over gently.

She was laughing, her eyes bright and dancing. Momentarily forgetting where he was and why, Christian gently ran his finger down the curve of her face, hot tears coursing unheeded down his cheeks. This… this was something he could keep. This was something that, one day, might summon forth warm memories. He could almost hear her laughter as he stared intently at Satine, frozen forever in a transitory instant. How could he have forgotten the way her smile seemed to dance across her features, the way her laughing eyes lit up her entire face. The realisation that the small details had become harder to recall with the passing of the months frightened him. He mustn't forget, mustn't ever let himself forget. Clutching the photo to his chest, he sat down heavily, burying his face amongst the clutter of her dressing table as his body shook with heavy sobs.

************************************** 

He couldn't say how long he had sat there, immersed in grief. He had nearly forgotten about the night's strange happenings until he lifted his head and something small and white caught his eye, something that hadn't been there before, and most certainly hadn't lain amongst the dust for the past ten months.

An envelope. Simple and adorned only with his name, it lay in such a position that it must have been underneath the photograph that Christian still clutched to his chest. Underneath it? Surely…surely it couldn't have lain there all this time. Yet the photograph had clearly been undisturbed until he had picked it up. Besides, the envelope was completely free of dust, clean and gleaming in the dim light. Tracing the letters of his name with his thumb, Christian's heart leapt suddenly. The ink was still wet, smudged at the touch of his fingers.

Jumping back as though he had been stung, Christian flung the envelope at the mirror. He wrapped his arms around himself, frozen to the spot, his breath escaping in painful gasps. Futilely, he peered about him; as though someone might be hiding beneath the curtains, ready to reveal themselves at a moment's notice.

The name was on his lips before he had a chance to consider it, escaping in a rush of breath. "Satine." He shook his head, trying desperately to push the unconscious thought from his mind. His voice shook with emotion, with all the pain that had been held barely concealed below the surface for so many months. "Satine, oh God help me, I must be going crazy, but if you're here, please, please…." His voice tumbled into a sob, as he struggled to put subconscious thought into words. "Please don't leave me again."

**************************************

Silence. Echoing, heartbreaking silence. He realised that he had been holding his breath, waiting for an answer, an acknowledgement, some sign that he wasn't being driven crazy by grief. But instead there was… nothing. Nothing except for a small envelope, brilliantly white, contrasted against the deep red of the carpet.

His hands were shaking as he pulled out the single sheet of paper. It was a poem, a song… just twelve short lines, written in a beautiful hand. As he read the words aloud in a faltering voice, music filled the room. Or perhaps it was only in his head. It seemed to drift from nowhere, to follow no discernable tune, yet it was melodic and beautiful, and the harmony swept him into a wave of bittersweet sorrow.

_"All I feel, all I am now,  
Is this love I have for you.  
Each night it's you I lay beside..."_

Biting his lip, Christian continued his whispered recital, barely daring to breathe, struggling to hold back the tears sprung to his eyes.

_"All I want now, all I ask of you,  
Is that you fill your life with joy,  
That I may share each day…  
  
__ _

_"So when you think of me, smile  
It's the only way that I can see  
that you still care for me..."_

It was impossible to keep the sob from his voice any longer, and Christian gave up trying to read aloud, instead letting the words, the music wash over him as tears flowed unheeded.

_"Here I am, I'm right here  
I wish you could feel me standing so close  
I'm always beside you…"  
  
************************************** _

Christian awoke early the next morning, after sleeping soundly for the first time in months. Satine's photograph was clutched tightly to his chest, the envelope propped up against his typewriter. He was at a loss to explain what had transpired last night, uncertain if he even wanted to. All he knew was that with the morning's light came an unprecedented feeling of enormous peace.

_"I'm always beside you…" _The words came to his mind unbidden. Glancing around the room, Christian was suddenly overcome with shame. The drawn curtains, the empty bottles, the typewriter untouched in months. This wasn't what Satine would have wished for. Filled with sudden purpose, he threw open the curtains, allowing sunlight to fill the darkest corners of the room.

************************************** 

Toulouse hesitated before Christian's door. His presence here probably wouldn't be welcome-'interfering' was what Christian called it, but he had to do something. He couldn't just leave him to wallow in self-imposed isolation, even if Christian usually didn't appreciate his efforts. Even so, it had been days since he had last seen him venture outside-a bad sign even by Christian's standards.

With a cursory knock on the door, he pushed it gently, hoping that Christian was at least sober and out of bed. To his surprise, he was greeted by the clack of typewriter keys. Sun streamed in the window, as Christian sat with his back to him, hunched over his typewriter, apparently lost in thought. 

"Chwistian?" His voice was wary. "Chwistian, you're…writing? Is that what you've been doing these past days?"

As if suddenly heeding Toulouse's presence, Christian turned around, looking distracted. His hair was tousled, his hands covered with ink, and Toulouse thought he could see faint tear tracks on his cheeks. A photograph of Satine that Toulouse had never seen before was propped up against the wall.

"I…" Christian paused, uncertain how to explain his sudden change of heart. "I thought it was time." He finished simply, and Toulouse merely nodded in silent agreement. He could offer no other response.

"It's finished." His voice was flat, but a sad smile flitted across his face. "After all this time, I did it. It's finished." The tears were there again, yet something was different. For the first time in the past ten months, Toulouse could see light in Christian's eyes. For the first time, he could read a sad sort of acceptance in his features.

"Toulouse, will you excuse me? I just have… something I have to do."

************************************** 

It was cold and dark in the deepest recesses of the Moulin Rouge, but Christian moved with confidence, certain of his destination. Satine's dressing room was exactly as he had left it that night-lonely and deserted. The dressing table was still littered with dust and debris. A half-used lipstick. A bracelet. A few francs in change. He glanced down at it all, thinking how meaningless were the things we left behind, how little anything mattered but the memories. With this thought, he pulled the finished manuscript out from under his coat, and glanced at it one last time before gently setting it down on the table.

His voice was half a whisper, half a sob. "Satine...thank you. I understand now." He paused, biting his lip. "You'll always be with me... but I think it's time I began to live again."

He stood in silence for a minute, emotion flooding over him. Then, pulling the door closed behind him, he stepped out towards the light once more.

THE END

LYRICS CREDIT: _Beloved by Wendy Matthews, written by W. Matthews & G. Skinner, with the exception of the second verse, which was written by moi (which is why it is so bad and totally out of synch with the rest of the song ***g*) **I just needed something extra to make it fit with the story properly. _J

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